THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

GIFT  OF 
FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


BANDANNA    BALLADS 


AND    1ANCY    HEARS    THH    ADVhN I     ROLL 
THROUGH    THAT    OLD    NEGRo's    SOL'l.  !  ' 


Bandanna  Ballads 


IXCLL'DIXG 


" Shadows  on  the  Wall': 

Verses  and  Pictures  by 

Howard   Weeden 

INTRODUCTION  BY  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 


Oh,  south  winds  have  long  memories. 

—EMERSON. 


NEW   YORK 

DOUBLEDAY    &    McCLURE    COMPANY 

1899 


COPYRIGHT,  1898,  1899,  BY 
HOWARD  WEEDEX 


DEDICATED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 
THE  ABSENT 


INTRODUCTION 

I  AM  fortunate  indeed  in  having1  the  op 
portunity  to  attach  my  name,  even  in  a 
casual  way,  to  the  delightful  materials  out 
of  which  this  volume  is  fashioned,  for  these 
materials  not  only  possess  a  vital  and  an 
inherent  charm  of  their  own,  but  shed  an 
illumination  over  all  the  various  efforts, 
good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  that  have  been 
made  to  throw  the  figures  of  the  old-time 
plantation  negroes  on  the  literary  canvas. 
What  has  been  attempted  by  many  hands 
wielding  the  pen  is  here  carried  to  comple 
tion  by  a  woman's  hand  wielding  the  brush. 

This  volume  may  therefore  be  said  to  be 
the  connecting  link  between  the  art  that  is 
prolix  and  the  art  that  is  precise,  between 
the  art  that  suggests  and  the  art  that  fulfils. 
The  two  arts  have  met  and  joined  hands 


Introduction 

before,  but  never,  so  far  as  I  know,  under 
such  satisfactory  conditions  and  with  such 
complete  success  ;  for,  as  has  been  intimated, 
these  memorial  portraits  illustrate  the  work 
of  every  conscientious  writer  who  has  en 
deavored  to  depict  the  character  and  indi 
viduality  of  the  "quality  negroes"  familiar 
to  the  Southern  plantations  before  the  war — 
not  only  illustrate  it,  but  give  it  a  fresh 
claim  to  consideration. 

It  is  safe  to  say  that  never  before  has  an 
artist  caught  with  such  vital  and  startling- 
distinctness,  such  moving  fidelity,  the  char 
acters  which  ofave  to  the  old  plantation,  if 

O  1 

not  its  chiefest  charm,  at  least  one  of  its 
most  enchanting  features.  Moreover,  these 
memorial  portraits  arrive  upon  the  scene  in 
the  very  nick  and  point  of  time.  A  new 
generation  has  arisen,  and  it  has  become 

O 

incredulous  and  sceptical  in  regard  to  the 
traditions  and  legends  of  the  old  plantation 
in  general,  and  of  the  old-time  quality  negro 
in  particular.  These  newcomers  find  a  touch 


Introduction 

of  romance  in  the  reports  that  come  to  them 
from  their  forbears  ;  their  curiosity  receives 
a  fillip  ;  the)'  would  like  to  believe  in  the 
substance  of  what  they  hear ;  but  they 
live  in  a  commercial  age,  and  have  a  hard 
grip  on  what  is  practical  and  concrete. 
They  look  about  them  for  some  confirma 
tion  of  the  stories  that  are  told,  and  they 
find  not  a  shred.  If  there  were  negroes  in 

o 

the  old  days  so  quaint  and  gentle,  so  tender 
hearted  and  devoted,  that  novelists  and 
writers  of  tales  never  tire  of  crowning  them 

O 

with  the  halos  that  are  convenient  to  fiction, 
what  has  become  of  them  ?  \Yhy  have  they 
disappeared  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  leav 
ing  no  trace  behind  ?  Why  have  they  left 
no  successors  ?  Such  is  the  attitude  of  an 
incredulous  generation,  engaged  in  trying  to 
snatch  a  few  tufts  of  hair  from  the  seventy- 
and-seven  thousand  prongs  of  the  money- 
demon's  tail. 

Not  long  ago,  a  Northern  gentleman,  who 
has  been   in  the  South  lono-  enough  to  make 

O  O 


Introduction 

his  mark  there,  wrote  to  an  author  of  his 
acquaintance  protesting  against  the  whole 
sale  method  of  making  saints  of  the  old-time 
negroes.  "If  YOU  want  to  display  genuine 

O  «  A  *•  <_> 

art,"  he  said,  "give  it  the  relish  of  reality. 
Paint  the  negroes  as  thev  now  are.  "When 

O  * 

you  do  this,  I'll  take  a  thousand  copies  of 
your  book,  and  send  them  broadcast  among 
my  friends  in  Xew  York  and  Massachusetts." 
Well,  the  art  of  Miss  Weeden's  book  is 
not  only  an  answer  to  the  sceptical,  but  is  a 
welcome  and  necessary  explanation  of  the 
plantation  legends  that  have  been  preserved. 
Whatever  the  negroes  are  now,  whatever 
they  may  become  in  the  cold-storage  con 
ditions  of  our  commercial  environment,  these 
portraits  present  unimpeachable  evidence  of 
what  they  were.  The  art  with  which  the 
facts  are  set  forth  is  so  felicitous  in  its 
touch,  so  faithful  and  so  informing,  that  it 
goes  deeper  than  character  and  individu 
ality  :  it  revives  and  resurrects  the  period  ; 
in  some  mysterious  way  it  restores  the 


Introduction 

atmosphere  and  color  of  the  time.  And 
each  portrait  stands  out  a  little  masterpiece, 
harmonious,  powerful,  charged  with  feeling, 
and  illuminated  by  the  imagination  that 
makes  its  creations  more  real  than  life  itself. 
Here  are  to  be  found  the  courtesy,  the  re 
finement,  the  dignity,  the  touch  of  conde 
scension  which  the  old-time  negroes  caught 

<_>  <_> 

from   their  masters  and   mistresses. 

Here,  too,  are  portrayed  the  contradic 
tions  that  gave  relish  and  zest  to  the  negro 
character — independence  with  loyalty,  pride 
with  gentleness,  officiousness  with  zeal,  per- 
verseness  with  graciousness,  captiousness 
with  affection — and  the  flavor  of  gentility 
which  was  the  result  of  neither  apishness 
nor  servility.  Alas  !  that  the  successors  and 
descendants  of  these  old  negroes  should 
now  everywhere  answer  to  the  name  of 
"coons,"  and  that  their  rich  melodies  should 
be  degraded  into  the  vulgar  and  disgusting 
"  rag-time  "  songs  ! 

But,  sooner  or  later,  Time  will  play  havoc 


Introduction 

with  all  things  over  which  it  claims  do 
minion,  and  in  many  directions  the  South 
has  had  a  surfeit  of  such  changes  as  havoc 

o 

involves.  Therefore  I  am  moved  to  thank 
Heaven  for  the  beautiful  genius  that  has 
snatched  from  the  past  and  preserved  the 
handful  of  memories  embodied  in  this  book. 
For  me,  and  for  all  who  are  in  love  with 
simplicity,  there  is  a  story  behind  each  pa 
thetic  face  here  pictured,  and,  indeed,  some 
thing  of  the  kind  is  more  than  intimated  in 
the  verses  that  face  the  portraits — verses  that 
accompany  this  symphony  of  art  like  a  sweet 
and  softly-played  refrain,  recurring-  and  filling 
up  the  pauses.  In  the  midst  of  the  furious 
striving  for  effect,  characteristic  of  our  brief 
da)',  the  simplicity  and  modesty  of  these 
little  poems  are  very  striking.  They  flutter 
across  the  page  as  shy  and  as  delicate  as  the 
yellow  falling  leaves  of  the  mimosa  blown 
past  a  dear  old  lady's  window  years  and 
years  ago. 

JOEL  CHANDLER   HARRIS. 


BANDANNA    BALLADS 

Mammy's   Lullaby,   2 
Theology,   6 

o  ^ 

Old   Times,    10 

A  Child's   Eyes,    14 

Homesick,    18 

The   Interpreter,    22 

Eventide,    26 

When    Mammy   Dies,    30 

SHADOWS    ON    THE    WALL 

Mother  and   Mammy,   34 
The   Old    Boatman,   38 
Aunt  Judy  and   the   Painter,   42 
Two   Lovers  and   Lizette,   46 


BANDANNA    BALLADS 


BANDANNA    BALLADS 
Mammy's   Lullaby 

"  Swing  low,   sweet   Chariot,"   low  enough 

To  give   some   heavenly   rest 
To   dis   poor  restless  little  one 

Dat  sobs  on    Mammy's  breast. 

"  Swing  low,  sweet  Chariot,"   wid  your   load 

Of  angels  snowy   drest, 
And   throw   a  dream   out   to   de   chile 

'.Most  sleep  on    Mammy's  breast. 

"  Swing  low,    sweet   Chariot,"    so   dat   She 

Ma)T   look   into  de   nest, 
An'   see   how  sound   her  baby  sleeps 

At  last — on    Mammy's    breast  ! 


THEOLOGY 


Theology 


We   only   had   one   chile  an'   hit 

We   named   Theology  : 

He  came  on   Sunday,   so   he   tit 

A   Sunday   name  ;    besides 

I)e   boy   was   so   confusing  like 

We   thought   he'd   make   a   preacher, 

An'   \vhite   folks  jes'   for  devilment 

Dey  called   him    Little   Beecher ! 

Well,   though   Theology  was  smart, 

He  was  dat   small   an'   thin 

Dat  by  an'   by   he   died — an'   den 

I  )e  angels   took   him   in. 

Perhaps  by  time   I   gits  to    Heaben 

He'll  be  a  growed   up   preacher 

Wid  angels  givin'   him   for  short 

I)e  white   folks'   name  of   "  Beecher. 


OLD    TIMES 


Old   Times 

I    haven't   cooked   a  'Possum- -Lord  ! 

For  such   a  long,   long  time, 
It   seems  to   me   I've  lost  somehow 

De  very  chime  an'   rhyme. 

De  times  is  changed,   an'  we  ain't  crot 

o  o 

De   consolations  which 
We're   'bleeped  to   have  if  we   would   cook 

o 

De   'Possum   sweet   an'   rich. 

De   cabin   an'   de   big   (ire-place 

Dey   neither  one   is   lef- 
\Yith   fires  so  good   cle  'Possum  would 

Almos'  jes'   cook   his   se'f. 

I    ought   to    think  'bout   Canaan,    but 
It's   Ole   Times  crowds   my   mind, 

An'   maybe  when   I   gits  to    Heaben 
It's   Ole  Times  dat   I'll   find! 


A    CHILD'S    EYES 


A   Child's   Eyes 


In  the  dusk  of  Chloe's  rich  brown  cheek 

The  dimples  are  never  at  rest, 
And  bright  would  the  <>dee  of  her  voting  face 

<r>  o  «•*:!> 

be, 

Did  not  the  eyes  protest. 

Chloe  wears  her  dusk}-  hair 

Twisted,  elfin-wise  ; 

And   her   face    is    in   bloom   with   the   smiles 
which  illume 

All  saving  her  solemn  eyes. 

And  no  OIK.-  knows  how  the  idle  face, 

So  young  and  so  nearly  glad, 
Found  and  hid  in  its  melting  eyes 

That  Something  so  deep  and  sad  ! 


i . 


HOMESICK 


Homesick 

I  long  to  see  a  cotton  field 

o 

Once  more  before  I  go, 
All  hot  an'  splendid,  roll  its  miles 
Of  sunny  summer  snow  ! 

I  long  to  feel  de  warm  sweet  wind 
Blow  down  de  river  bank, 

Where  fields  of  wavin'  sugar  cane, 
Are  oTowin'  rjca  an'  rank. 


I  long  to  see  dat  Easy  World 
Where  no  one's  in  a  flurry  ; 

And  where,  when  it  comes  time  to  die 
Dis  merger  needn't  hurry  ! 


is 


THE    INTERPRETER 


The  world  is  a  mighty  confusin'  big-  place 
For  a  nigger  like  me,  you  know, 

An'    tie   only    safe   thing    I    have    found,    has 

been 
To  keep  a  good  grip  on  my  hoe  ! 

You  can   always  depend   on   de   fields   an'  de 
sky 

Whichever  way  other  things  go— 
An'  de  res'  will  get  plain  in  time  to  de  man 

Who  keeps  a  good  grip  on  his  hoe  ! 


EVENTIDE 


Eventide 

A  child  all  wearied  with  its  day 
Of  laughter,  tears,  and  play, 

O  Is 

Is  gathered,  'gainst   its  will,  to  rest 

At  eye  on  Mammy's  breast. 

She  bends  aboye  him,  dark  and  calm, 

And,  tender  as  a  psalm. 

She  lays  a  long  kiss  on  his  lips, 

Till  in  that  soft  eclipse 

He  melts  away  to  sweet  release 

And  sleeps  in  smiling  peace. 

Some  day   I,  too,  shall  go  to  rest 

Upon  a  kind  Dark  Breast, 

And  feel  my  soul  slip  through  a  kiss 

J  o 

As  dark  and  kind — as  this  ! 


26 


WHEN    MAMMY    DIES 


When    Mammy   Dies 

We're  always  young-  till  mammy  dies  ; 
But  when  her  hand  no  longer  lies 
As  once  it  did   upon  our  head 
We  feel  that  youth  with  her  has  tied. 

We  watch  her  wing  her  way  to   Rest, 
And  see  ourselves   upon  her  breast. 
Our  young  selves — cradled  as  of  yore- 
Xow  borne  from  us  forevermore. 

We  hear  their  last  faint  lullaby 
Blown  softly  backward  from  the  sky, 
And  as  they  soar  beyond   our  reach 
We  wave  farewell  to  each,  to  each  ! 


MOTHER    AND   MAMMY 


Mother  and   Mammy 

Among  the  ranks  of  shining  saints 

<_>  o 

Disguised  in  heavenly  splendor, 
Two  Mother-faces  wait  for  me, 
Familiar  still,  and  tender. 

One  face  shines  whiter  than  the  dawn, 

And  steadfast  as  a  star  ; 
None  but  my  Mother's  face  could  shine 

So  bright — and  be  so  far  ! 

The  other  dark  one  leans  from  Heaven, 

Brooding  still  to  calm  me  ; 
Black  as  if  ebon  Rest  had  found 

Its  image  in  my  Mammy  ! 


34 


THE    OLD    BOATMAN 


The  Old   Boatman 

I    changed    my  name,   when    I  got    free, 

To  "  Mister"   like  the  res', 
But  now  dat  I  am  £  oilier  Home, 

<_>  <"> 

I  likes  de  ol'  name  bes'. 

Sweet  voices  callin'  "Uncle  Rome," 

Seem  ringin'  in  my  ears  ; 
An'  swearin'  sort  o'  sociable, 

Ol'  Master's  voice  I  hears. 

De  way  he  used  to  call  his  boat, 

Across  de  river:     "  Rome  ! 
You  damn  ol'  nigger,  come  an'  bring 

Dat  boat,  an'   row  me  home  !  " 

He's  passed  Heaven's  River  now,  an'  soon 

He'll  call  across  its  foam  : 
"You,  Rome,  you  damn  ol'  nigger,  loose 

Your  boat,  an'  come  on  Home  !" 


AUNT    JUDY   AND  THE   PAINTER 


Aunt  Judy   and   the   Painter 

I  can't  allow  my  picture  took 

l)e  way  you  wants  to  draw — 
A-leavin'  off  my  Freedom-look 

For  fashions  'fore  cle  war. 

You'd    have    my    dress,   you   say,  "  be  plain, 

Of  dat  dull  quiet  blue, 
Dat  caught  from  years  of  sun  and  rain, 

Its  tender  faded  hue." 

An'  on  my   "head   a  turban  red 

Worn  wid  a  stately  grace— 
"To  harmonize—  '  I  think  you  said, 

"  Wid  my  rich,  dark  brown  face." 

No,  Lord  !   my  picture  can't  be  caught 

By  man  wid   no  sich  manners; 
Dat's  'zactly  why  de  war  was  fought — 

To  end  dem  same  bandannas  ! 


*Y 


TWO   LOVERS   AND    LIZETTE 


Two  Lovers  and  Lizette 

Who,  me  ?  in  love,  an'  wid  Lizette  ? 

You  better  b'lieve  I  ain't  ; 
Xo  sassy  cral  like  dat  could  give 

o  o 

Dis  nigger  heart-complaint. 

If   Gord   don't   love  her  more  den   !, 

Den  all  I  got  to  say 
Is,  dat  her  soul's   in  danger  sho', 

An'  she  had  better  pray  ! 

It's  her,  dat  is  in  love  wid  me  ; 

An'  I  jes  laughs  an'  tell  her, 
"  De  fruit  dat  drapsd'out  bein'  shook 

Is  sho'  to  be  too  meller  !  " 

But  all  de  same,  you  talks  too  much 

To  suit  me,  'bout  Lizette: 
Some  (^ent'man's  nio-u-er  cr\vine  iret  hurt 

o  o  o          <_>  o 

About  dat  same  ^al  yet  ! 


THE    BANJO    OF    THE    PAST 


The   Banjo  of  the   Past 

You  ax  about  dat  music  made 

On   banjos  long  ago, 
An'  wants  to   know  why   it   ain't  played 

By  niggers  any  mo'. 

Dem  banjos  b'longecl  to  by-gone  days 

When  times  an'  chimes  was  rare, 
When  we  was  ""ay  as  children — 'case, 

O       * 

We  didn't  have  a  care. 

But  when  we  got   our  freedom,  we 
Found  projeckin'  was  done  ; 

Our  livin'  was  to  make — you  see, 
An'  dat  lef  out  de  fun. 

We  learned  to  vote  an'  read  an'  spell, 
We  learned  de  taste  ob  tears— 

An'  when  you  gets  dat  'sponsible, 
De  banjo  disappears  ! 


'POSSUM    TIME 


'Possum   Time 

When  autumn  skies  are  deeper  blue 
Than  any  skies  June  ever  knew  ; 
When  frost  has  touched  the  mellow  air 
Till  yellow  leaves  fall  everywhere  ; 
When  wild  grapes  scent  the  wind  with  wine, 
And  ripe  persimmons  give  the  sign, 
Then  Life  seems  happy  as  a  rhyme 
Because — it's  nearly  'Possum  time  ! 

When  fires  roar  on  the  cabin-hearth, 
And  ovens  bubble  low  in  mirth  ; 
When  sweet  potatoes  slowly  bake, 
And  Mammy  makes  her  best  ash-cake  ; 

j 

When  Daddy  climbs  the  "jice"  and  throws 
A  string  of  peppers  down,  it  shows, 
That  Life  is  happier  than  a  rhyme, 
Because  at  last — it's  'Possum  time  ! 


5-1 


TOO    LATE 


Too  Late 

Yes,  Master,  clat's  jes'  what  I  think  : 

Dat  Freedom  is  first  rate. 
I  only  means  to  say  it  came 

For  some  of  us,  too  late  ! 

De  days  dat  you  call  "slavery  days'' 

Seemed  happy  ones,  you  see, 
Becase  I  was  so  YOU n if  an'  !>~aY 

«•  o  o      > 

An'  Dinah  was  wid  me. 

Hut  jes'  as  Freedom  come  along 

My  Dinah  up  an'  died  ; 
An'  I  got  oY  an'  couldn't  learn 

De  new  ways,  dough  I  tried. 

So  when  dev  talks  'bout  beino;  free, 

s  £j 

An'  I  don't  seem  to  heed  'em, 
You  may  jes'  know  my  heart's  brimful, 
An'  tears  has  clrownded  Freedom  ! 


A    STUDIO    DISPUTE 


A   Studio  Dispute 

In  vain  my  palette  bears  a  score 
Of  browns,  and  yellows,  too  ; 

In  vain  I  ask  of  other  eyes 
\Yhat  is  my  model's  hue  ? 

"  A  <dow  from  Afric  suns,"  I  cry, 

o  *   ' 

"  Still  lingers  in  her  face, 
And  keeps  a  light  there,  as  if  flame 
Shone  through  an  amber  vase  ! 


A  Poet  near  my  easel  thinks 
Her  color-scheme  was  laid 

By  that  old  Singer  who  once  called 
A  crirl  "  The  Xut-Browne  Mavde." 

o  * 


Old  Remus  looks  to  where  she  sits, 
Posincr  with  half-turned  head, 

o 

And  says  :   "  You  gent'men  bof  is  wrong, 
Dat  gal  is  ginger-bread  !  " 


A    REGRET 


A   Regret 

Dar's  always  somethin'  wantin' 

In  my  joy  at  bein'  free, 
When  I  think  ol'  Master  didn't 

Live  to  share  dat  joy  with  me. 

Dem  was  mighty  big  plantations 
Uat  he  owned  before  de  war 

An'  he,  de  kindes'  master 
Dat  darkies  ever  saw. 

But  de  care  of  dem  was  heavy, 
Makin'  him  cle  slave,  not  we— 

An'  often  I  have  heard  him  say 
He  wished  dat  he  was  me  ! 

An'  if  he  jes'  was  livin', 

He  would  have  his  wish,  you  see- 
Dem  movers  couldn't  own  him  now 

<_>  o 

An'  Master  would  be  free. 


66 


BEATEN    BISCUIT 


Beaten   Biscuit 

Of  course  I'll  gladly  give  de  rule 

I  meks  beat  biscuit  by, 
Dough  I  ain't  sure  dat  you  will  mek 

Dat  bread  de  same  as  I. 

'Case  cookin's  like  religion  is— 
Some's  'lected,  an'  some  ain't, 

An'  rules  don't  no  more  mek  a  cook 
Den  sermons  mek  a  Saint. 

Well,  'bout  de  'grediances  required 

I  needn't  mention  dem, 
Of  course  you  knows  of  flour  and  things, 

How  much  to  put,  an'  when  ; 

But  soon  as  you  is  got  dat  dough 
Mixed  up  all  smoove  an'  neat, 

Den's  when  your  genius  g\\ine  to  show, 
To  get  dem  biscuit  beat ! 

Two  hundred  licks  is  what  I  gives 

For  home-folks,  never  fewer, 
An'  if  I'm  'spectin'  company  in, 

I  gives  five  hundred  sure  ! 


A    PLANTATION    HYMN 


A   Plantation   Hymn 

Far  clown  the  west  still  crlows  the  li^ht 

o  o 

Though  elsewhere  it  is  night. 

The  fields  are  quiet  as  the  stars, 

Save  some  one  at  the  bars 

Whose  full  heart,  quivering  to  the  brim 

Flows  over  in  a  hymn. 

It  sends  its  strangely  solemn  tide 

Of  Hallelujahs,  wide— 

Across  the  fields,  and  up  as  far 

As  to  the  fartherest  star, 

Till  all  the  Southern  night's  in  bloom 

o 

With  Song  and  Star-sown  gloom— 
And  Fancy  hears  the  Advent  roll 
Through  that  old  negro's  soul  ! 


A   Banjo   Song 

I   plays  de  banjo  better  now 
Dan   him  dat  taught  me  do, 

Becase   he  plays  for  all  de  worl' 
An'   I   jes'   plays — for  You. 

He  learns  his  chimes — I  jes'  lets  down 

A   banjo  string  or  two 
Into  de  deepest  of  my  heart, 

An'   draws   up  chimes  for  You. 

Slowly  dey  comes  swingin'   up 

A-quiverin'  through   and  through, 
Till  wicl  a  rush  of  tineflin'   notes 

o 

Dey  reaches  light — an'   You. 

I    never  knows  if  dey  will  shine 

Wet  wid  tears  or  dew  ; 
I   only  knows  dat,   dew  or  tears, 

Dey  shine  becase  of  You. 


77 


THE    BORROWED    CHILD 


The   Borrowed   Child 

My  chile  ?      Lord  no,  she's  none  </  mine. 

She's  des  one  I  have  tried 
To  put  in  place  of  Anna  Jane— 

My  little  one  what  died. 

Dat's  lono-  a<^o  ;   no  one  hut  UK; 

Knows  even  where  she  lies  : 
But  in  her  place  I've  always  kept 

A  borrowed  chile,  her  size. 

As  soon  as  it  outgrows  my  chile, 
I  lets  it  <ro,  rii^ht  straight— 

£>       '  O  O 

An'  takes  another  in  its  place 
To  match  dat  Heabenly  mate. 


So 


The   Borrowed   Child 

It's  took  a  sight  o'  chillun,  sho', 

To  ease  dat  dull  ol'  pain, 
An'  keep  de  pretty  likeness  fresh 

Of  my  dead  Anna  Jane. 

Der's  more  den  forty  years,  you  see, 
Since  she  has  been  in  Heaben, 

But  wid  de  angels  years  don't  count- 
So  she's  still  only  seben. 

Time  treats  us  all  up  dere,  des  lak 

It  do  white  ladies  here— 
It  teches  'em  so  light — one's  still 

A  cral  at  forty  year  ! 

t>  .<   j 


THE    DEVIL'S    GARDEN 


The  Devil's  Garden 

On  Master's  ol'  plantation,  where 

I  lived  before  de  war, 
A  field  called   "  Devil's  Garden  "  was 

De  worst  you  ever  saw. 

De  work  right  dere  it  was  so  hard 
We  knew  de  Devil  made  it  ; 

And  often  found  a  hoof-track  dere 
Where  he  had  been  an'  laid  it. 

When  Freedom  came  I  wanted  ease  ;- 

So  off  from  dere  I  put  ; 
But  somehow  every  job  I've  tried 

Has  showed  de  cloven-foot  ! 


86 


'  '• 


EASY    LIVING 


Easy   Living 


Dar's   two   times    in    de   year  dat    Gord 

Made  for  de  nigger  sho', 
Two  times  when  he's  so  rich  he  don't 
Ask  Gord  for  nothin'  mo'  : 

Blackberry  time-  is  one  ;   for  den 

He  neither  hoes  nor  sows  ; 
De  nigger  knows  his  daily  bread 

Right  on  de  bushes  grows. 

De  other's  \Yatermilion  time.'  ; 

An'  den — Lord  bless  your  soul  ! 
Bof  bread  an'  water  grows  for  him, 

In  one  big  cool  green  bowl  ! 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


PRINTED  IN  U    » 


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